It rains on your clear eyes.

A photo in the Plaza de Mayo, a pillar

of faces paves the way.

My father looks at you

and turns away.

 

(Diaphragm contracting

and opening, as if waking

from an old dream).

 

Absent. Between still frames, papa swims and I

Eight years bold, on my knees, see

my name in you.

 

A translucent wall, a mattress of

noise, separates me from

the plaza. Here inside, your name and I,

the voices that silenced us.

 

The dome opens above us

Catedral gasps for air:

there it is, the disappeared image

 

and in waves

the distant vibration returns, the crowd

the footsteps, shouts, meetings. A flood

in your eyes, my father’s eyes.